


St. Patrick Had a Wife

by callthemoonbeam



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-10-03 00:49:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17273984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callthemoonbeam/pseuds/callthemoonbeam
Summary: Some believe they're a sign from God, and others think they're mere superstition. But Nonnatus House admits postulants with all manner of soulmarks. Based on an anonymous tumblr prompt for a "soulmates AU" feat. Turnadette.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was published first on ff.net, so some of you may already have read the first chapters. For folks here, I'll be posting a chapter a day until the final chapter, which I'll crosspost here and on ff.net. Thanks to the anon who slid into my inbox with this request, to @Nunonabun for being a swell beta, to Jennifer Worth and Heidi Thomas for rendering these characters in the first place, and to everyone who's followed along so far.

Sister Julienne stroked the marking on her palm as she waited for the new postulant. The X-shaped mark had been there since birth, and led her to her current path. Many people were no longer sure they believed in soulmarks, but she always had. It was why she knew that though she had cared for Charlie, all those years ago, she was on the right path: though her old name marked him, his name was nowhere on her skin.

Of course, she knew that the marks were different for everyone. Though some orders were strict about those whose marks they’d accept into their walls, Nonnatus House allowed for a wealth of interpretations, as they knew God called each in a different way. Sister Monica Joan’s was a name in a language she only now recognized as Sanskrit; the nun claimed her soulmate was the hero of an epic called the Ramayana, born several generations too early to whisk her away to warmer shores. Sister Evangelina had been Enid before joining the order, taking the name that had been tattooed on her inner arm since before she could remember. Mother Jesu Emmanuel had always been without one. And hers, she assumed, as she could find no other, must be the scar-like mark on her palm. She traced it instinctively when she crossed herself, like now, as the thunder cracked outside Nonnatus House.

The sister checked her watch; nearly time for vespers. The new girl should have arrived half an hour ago. She gazed out anxiously into the rain, hoping wherever she was she’d have an umbrella.

She didn’t, as it turned out. The train from Edinburgh had arrived late, and the poor young nurse had made her way as best she could, slowed by the torrential downpour. When Sister Evangelina finally answered the door, it was to a tiny, apologetic young thing dripping rainwater from her skirts into her utility shoes.

“Get in out of the rain, girl!” Sister Evangelina had nearly shouted at the poor postulant, shunting her in off the step and into the kitchen for a hot cup of tea. Swaddled in blankets, the little Scot turned red in the ears as Sister Monica Joan plied her with cake and Sister Mary Frances urged her to take another sweater from the charity box. She just looked so delicate in her big wooly sweater and foggy specs, Sister Julienne thought, it was hard not to want to take care of her.

Despite all the sisters’ care, though, the new Novice Bernadette had caught a cold. Sister Evangelina sent her straight back upstairs when she came to lauds sniffling and suppressing a chesty cough.

“Honestly, how will the girl ever learn to take care of her patients when she won’t even look after herself, Sister,” Evangelina scoffed as she held open the door for Sister Julienne to enter. The grumpy nun closed the door with a grumble and a promise to bring a fresh pot of tea and a hot water bottle.

“I’m terribly sorry, Sister. I didn’t want to keep you all waiting but I’d left my umbrella in the station when I transferred.” Novice Bernadette twisted her hands. “I hate to cause a fuss, when you’re all so busy.”

“Think nothing of it,” said Sister Julienne gently, taking supplies from her medical bag. “Caring for others is what we do--what you will do--and we take pride and pleasure in it. Despite what Sister Evangelina’s demeanor might sometimes lead you to believe.”

The novice rolled up her sleeve to allow Sister Julienne to take her pulse, trying not to wince at her ice-cold fingers.

The name was just above her wrist. A flicker of the sister’s eyes were all that betrayed her, but Novice Bernadette was quick to offer an explanation.                   

“He died in the war,” she said softly.

“You must have been so young,” Sister Julienne laid a hand on her arm.

“Yes,” Bernadette admitted.

“I’m sorry, it’s not my place to ask questions,” said Sister Julienne, reaching around to listen at her back. “I’ve seen those with marks of all sort, in and out of the religious life.”

The young nun nodded. “I know many people don’t believe in them anymore, but I do. I suppose I have it to thank for leading me here.”

“Well, your pulse is normal, and we’re very happy to have you.” Sister Julienne indicated to Novice Bernadette she should make herself comfortable once more.

The new nun burrowed further into the warm blankets as the Sister took her leave. She felt at home here, even with the grumpy one, and the nun who’d quoted her what seemed to be poetry from another language. Close to drifting off, she moved to roll down her sleeves, but not before performing the habit that was near instinctual, touching a hand to her wrist to feel the name that marked her: _Patrick_.


	2. Chapter 2

Stepping out into the early morning sunshine after a long birth had always felt like a miracle to Sister Bernadette. Today, with her head still ringing from the blow she’d received earlier, and Dr. Turner’s head in front of her not quite managing to block all the bright dawn light, the experience was surreal.

Less than an hour ago, she had been rocking a blue-faced newborn, every ounce of her energy concentrating on the child’s M-shaped soulmark ( _birthmark_ , corrected the medical textbook side of her brain) while praying she’d take her first breath. Now she was politely declining the joyous father’s offer of avocado pears “for that other little one” and being half-blinded by the sun. Her legs moved stiffly. As her foot fell from the last step, she caught herself--she’d been nearly about to cling to Dr. Turner’s arm in her exhaustion. Instead, she steadied herself against the outer wall of the building they’d just emerged from. They rested a moment in the unusual silence of the early morning; it was just before children were wont to emerge from flats, trailing housewives with loads of washing and young men off to work.

“I feel like an officer and a sergeant the morning after the Somme,” said Dr. Turner, leaning back against the hood of his car and taking a long drag of his cigarette. “Which is not to say I think of myself as the officer.”

Sister Bernadette blushed. She’d learned much in her ten years at Nonnatus House, but it still sometimes felt like only yesterday she’d arrived, dripping wet with a head cold in the middle of a storm. She wouldn’t normally liken herself to an officer, though she was flattered at the thought. She took a deep breath. The idea strengthened her, and she found her legs once more.

“It’s funny,” he began, noticing her hoisting her bag onto the back of her bicycle. “I don’t usually buy into these sorts of things, but I did notice that Meg and Maeve have each other’s soulmarks. Meg’s on Maeve’s hand and Maeve’s on Meg’s.”

“Mm,” she nodded. “And the babies were matching. Certainly won’t make it easier on their mothers, identical M’s on each left foot.” She smiled.

“Have you seen that before with twins, Sister?”

“Can’t say I have. I suppose that’s why Meg and Maeve have stuck together so closely. But it does make one curious as to how the husband feels about it,” Sister Bernadette mused. This lightheadedness was making her more talkative than normal, she noted.

“Then again, it could be that their mother named them that way after seeing the marks,” said Dr. Turner, as if continuing a thought aloud. “It is quite an old-fashioned belief. Think of all the people who let theirs guide them in spite of their hearts.” He let a bit of ash fall to the ground between them.

“Not everyone would call a belief in fate like that old-fashioned,” Sister Bernadette said curtly. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks and hoped both that the doctor would and would not notice.

Dr. Turner cleared his throat. “Pardon me, Sister.”

“It’s quite all right, Doctor Turner.” A silence hung in the air between them, stale in comparison to the cigarette smoke, and the nun turned to leave.

“My wife and I—ours didn’t match.” His voice was quiet, a bit husky, from sadness or smoke. She paused and, after hesitating a moment, leaned against the MG beside him.

“An Australian friend in the army said mine just meant ‘woman’ where he came from--he thought she was sure to be an Aussie. Marianne and I, we loved one another, but we were never sure what to believe.” He sighed. “Sometimes I wish I had a bit of your faith, in matters like this.”

“Sometimes I wish it mattered,” she replied softly, a little breathless.

He reached for another cigarette. “I feel I should offer you one.” She hesitated, biting a lip.

“Go on then, just a puff.”

“Of this?”

“Quickly, just a wee one.” She took more than a wee one, thinking to herself both that she’d earned it, after that delivery, and that she’d need a lot of prayer to make up for it. The taste was familiar—was it the ones he’d smoked? It was so many years ago. “What are these?”

“Henleys.”

“I thought so.” She took another drag. His brand, then. Henleys. Emerging from her reverie, she saw Dr. Turner looking down at her with a curious, almost tender expression. “My—well, the man whose name is etched on my skin, he used to smoke Henleys. He’d steal them out of his father’s case for us to share. We were only about sixteen. So I suppose he never was a man, really, just a boy.”

“I see.”

She returned the cigarette, dusting her hands down the front of her habit. “Thank you, Doctor, I should be going.” The cold air on the ride back to Nonnatus House would do her good. She suspected the heat in that dark flat had made her woozy, and she’d surely just overstepped several professional boundaries. “Good day.”

He wasn’t sure whether it was the exhaustion of another sleepless night, or the shock of swapping cigarettes with a nun, or the emotions stirred by their conversation that slowed his tongue. But it felt as if she disappeared instantaneously, or like he was underwater. Her wimple whipped round out of sight and all he could feel was the place on his hand where her fingers had touched him as she passed him the cigarette.


	3. Chapter 3

_Patrick_. Sister Bernadette lay awake in her cell, playing over the events of the day before. Sister Julienne had been seconded to the London so suddenly, called away nearly the hour she was needed. She had pressed a list into Sister Bernadette’s hands in the hallway with only a rushed explanation. _Bless you_ , she’d breathed, her body calm but eyes frantic. Was there anything else?, Sister Bernadette asked. _Stay exactly as you are_ , Sister Julienne had told her with a smile, _I don’t know what I would do without you_. She had looked to the list of new responsibilities with excitement. A rota to be drawn up for the next day, arrangements to be made for next week’s clinic, she must speak to Sister Monica Joan about being a bit too profligate with the knitting supplies. And a letter, half finished, to the Ministry of Health, needed posting as soon as it was complete.

A letter signed, sincerely, Nonnatus House Medical Staff and Doctor _Patrick_ Turner. She thought she must have heard his name before, must have seen it somewhere, but now it gave her pause. It was only a few days ago she’d let slip to him her Patrick was gone--had she revealed his name? No, surely not. Her Patrick had had her name on his back. He’d given her her first kiss, they’d promised to love one another always. She’d been so sure, she thought she’d never even be tempted to love any other man again. Patrick. Then again, the doctor was a tactful man; he would have sensed that admitting that resemblance would arouse her embarrassment. No, she was quite sure she hadn’t told him that much. She noted, while pulling on her habit, that perhaps she should make it a point not to let him discover it.

All she’d told him was that he--Patrick, her Patrick, though this Patrick knew him only as a man she’d loved--was gone. When they received notice of his death, she was devastated, but it gave her purpose. At least she knew. Many families hadn’t the luxury of burying their dead. And as for her, she thought, someone so young without a living soulmate really had only one noble option: to care for all others equally, to love widely and to love God. She gazed up at the stained glass windows above the altar, willing her wandering mind to focus on Him.

But now: another Patrick. A man she realized she looked forward to seeing, speaking to, even joking with. She might laugh if not for the noise--the sound would surely echo in the cold chapel and wake someone. It couldn’t be that God was sending her a replacement. That wasn’t how it worked, surely. She had met other Patricks since the man she had lost so long ago, but never questioned that he had been the one. Her Patrick--their families had been overjoyed they’d found one another so young. They would grow old together. He would take over her father’s farm; he was thrilled to have a “solid laddie aboo’ the bit”. The memories echoed through the empty room as she forced her eyes closed, trying to ignore the chill seeping in through her scapular.

“Sister?”

Patrick Turner was her colleague, that was all--they merely had a good working rapport. If they had shared a cigarette, once, she had long since atoned for it in prayer. And this nonsense he was stirring inside her… she resolved not to let his skepticism shake her beliefs. _But the doubt isn’t his alone_ , whispered a passing thought before she waved it away.

“Sister Bernadette.”

She gasped at the soft touch, her eyes jerking open as she came face to face with the harsh stare of Sister Evangelina.

“What are you doing here so early? It’s near bloody freezing in here, and don’t think I haven’t noticed your cough,” the nun scolded.

“Thank you for your concern, Sister,” she winced, her knees stiff from the stone floor as she struggled to stand, “but I’m perfectly all right. I woke early this morning and thought my time might be better spent in prayer.”

Sister Evangelina merely grunted. As she reached the door, she turned and jerked her head.

“Probably nothing a nice strong cup of tea won’t fix.”

In the kitchen, Sister Evangelina bustled about preparing tea in her flannel dressing gown. She was the last person Sister Bernadette would ever think to share these secret feelings with--she couldn’t imagine what the hardened Sister would say about her softening heart, and blushed a little at the thought.

“Sister Monica Joan told me yesterday there was a misty aura about you.” Sister Evangelina snorted as she passed the second mug across the counter. “Silly old thing. But I’m starting to think she’s onto something.”

Sister Bernadette wilted under her unwavering gaze. “I--well, I suppose God is testing me, Sister.”

“Hmmph. Does it to all of us.” She glanced skyward, then down into her tea. “We just have to trust he’ll put us on the right path, in the end.”

They sipped their drinks in silence.

“Sister, have you--do you believe in soulmarks?” The Scottish accent cut faintly through the cool air and she scrambled to explain herself. “It’s just I was at a birth yesterday and the baby didn’t have one. The parents were so distraught.” She rubbed her thumb against the lip of the hot mug. “It’s strange they appear at birth, isn’t it? We have them before our own names, and Doctor Turner--well, he was at the birth, too--says they’re too fallible, we put too much stock into them.”

“Doctor Turner hasn’t had reason to believe in much,” Sister Evangelina said as she began instinctively tidying the kitchen. “Mother Jesu Emmanuel doesn’t have one, you know. But I’ve seen all sorts. Brothers and sisters with each other’s marks, best friends, people with marks matching other folks’ wives and husbands. Neighbor of mine had a German-sounding name on her neck and everyone labeled her a traitor when she’d never even slapped eyes on a Jerry. Not saying she wasn’t, but the teasing did her no help.” She sighed. “And me, I never knew an Evangelina til I arrived here and knew what the bleeding name was for.”

“Yes.” Sister Bernadette’s tea had grown cold. She’d never admit it, but Sister Evangelina never put quite enough milk in for her liking.

“Sometimes it takes awhile to understand the messages He sends us, that’s what I think.”

Was this a message, then? This second Patrick? She hadn’t yet worked it out. Maybe a soulmark was like an echo; it could live on, warped, repeated. Or perhaps she was reading a message where there was none. Perhaps his name was just a name. The Doctor, after all, said the marks held no weight for him. Besides, it was far too intrusive to speculate about the name that marked him--or where it lay.

“Nearly time for lauds, I think.” Sister Evangelina stirred her from her reverie.

“I’ll finish up here. Thank you for the tea.”

“Put another layer on when you head up--don’t want that cough getting any worse. I know you can take care of yourself, but I’m not above sending for Doctor Turner.”

She nearly spat out the last of her tea, but dug her nails into her wrist as she swallowed the bitter liquid with a hard gulp. “Yes, Sister, I will.”


	4. Chapter 4

Patrick twisted in his sheets, unable to find sleep. A pair of blue eyes kept stubbornly swimming up before his. The way she’d looked at him at the clinic that morning, like she was trying to tell a secret without saying a word--was it all in his head?

He scratched at the mark on his leg. He’d not been able to shake their earlier conversation from his head. Apart from the shock of seeing Sister Bernadette drag cooly on a cigarette, for all the world looking as comfortable as Marilyn Monroe on the hood of his car, he was unsettled by the thoughts she’d dredged up in him. He’d always abided by the belief that soulmarks required more interpretation than people ever gave them. They were barely to be believed, let alone taken at face value: who could say humans hadn’t built up languages and names and customs to explain the mysterious scars they were graced with at birth? It was a field science hadn’t afforded enough research, he thought, like sleep, or sex.

He had loved Marianne. He knew that from the way his heart ached with her absence. Their love had been real, but “soulmates”? Soulstruck friends, colleagues, and fellow soldiers had always said that he’d “just know” when he found his, but even with Marianne--a woman he’d loved more than anyone he’d ever known--he couldn’t be completely convinced the idea was to be believed. Their marriage had been full of joy, certainly, but also hard work. They’d had fiery rows, icy silences, even secrets. They were such different people, but that was part of the reason he’d loved her.

Maybe they were never meant to be. She’d implied as much during the worst fight they’d ever had. Marianne’s soulmark had been Julie, her sister. Julie’s was Bill, who had a J that was good enough for her. Both of them died in the war: Bill in the infantry, and Julie in the rubble of an air raid. Part of Marianne had gone with her, everyone said. Patrick met her when the war was over and loved every bit that was left. Everyone alive had lost a part of themselves by 1945, so wasn’t it enough, he thought, to make the best of what they had?

He let out a long breath and contemplated getting out of bed for a cigarette. It was useless to think about whether or not his soul had been connected in some magical way to someone else’s. She was gone. The thought sat him up and led his fingers to the case of cigarettes on his nightstand. Sister Bernadette’s was gone, too. Would she also tell him you “just knew”? What did it feel like to lose a soulmate? Was it like he felt without Marianne, or different, somehow? Could you ever have another?

Those questions weren’t proper to ask a nun, he supposed, even one he seemed to be able to talk to about most other things. However unsettled his feelings were after that early morning conversation, he still itched with curiosity about her background and beliefs. He’d found himself surprised by her lately.

Earlier that day, for example--or the day before, if it was as late as he suspected--he’d had a more substantial conversation about tuberculosis with Sister Bernadette than he’d had with anyone, about any topic, in months.

Lingering in the clinical kitchen with a cigarette as Sister Bernadette packed away the last of the spirit lamps, he’d been thinking aloud, working through his recent difficulties with the Ministry of Health. “But the X-rays won’t necessarily give us insight into potential latent or developing cases,” he’d lamented.

“That is true, but X-rays are far more efficient than mass blood tests. We can always use that data to identify potential problem areas and focus on more specialized treatment later,” said Sister Bernadette.

“Mm.” The doctor had been lost in thought, then, considering the work ahead of them if they even managed to convince the officials at County Hall to fund it all.

“And,” she added, turning on the tap, “I expect it may be easier to convince the general public to come in for screening if it doesn’t involve needles.”

“You’re probably right.” After what was surely too long, he’d noticed he was staring at her hands under the tap. He noted that her religious vow of modesty extended even to her wrists: her dark woolen habit covered her arms completely and yet managed to stay relatively dry despite her thorough scrubbing.

“Yes,” she’d smiled, with uncharacteristic cheek. Feeling himself staring, and with a fleeting sensory thought in the back of his mind about soft skin under wool, he’d dragged himself back to reality.

“Sister, will you join me at the meeting next week? If Sister Julienne can spare you, I think you have some valuable insight about work on the ground. Together we might make quite the team,” he grinned.

She’d looked at him then with those lovely eyes, and again he felt there was a question he should be able to answer, but couldn’t interpret. “Quite,” she’d breathed, breaking eye contact after what felt like an eternity.

“I will see what Sister Julienne has to say,” she’d offered, somehow already three steps to the door. “At the moment, I think they’ll be expecting me for supper.” She paused. “Would you care to join us?”

“Er,” _Yes_ , he thought. “I couldn’t impose.” Had she looked disappointed at that? “But perhaps… well, maybe--”

At that moment, Timothy burst through the swinging doors with all the force of the model Spitfire in his hand.

“Dad! There you are. I need to--oh, hello Sister Bernadette.”

“Hello, Timothy. That’s quite the aircraft you’ve got there.” She cast an appraising eye over the Spitfire and nodded approvingly. The boy’s eyes lit up.

“It’s a Supermarine Spitfire! They can fly at speeds of over--”

“Timothy.” He’d felt his face growing warm. Surely the sister didn’t have time for toys, she was--

“How fast can they fly?” She’d given him another look then, a different one. It had made him feel both slightly ashamed, as though she was reprimanding him for his impatience, and warmly excited. It was a look that again activated some distant sensory memory he hadn’t felt since Marianne died.

Sister Bernadette had put down her things and listened intently to Tim’s statistical rundown of the fighter jet--Tim had even let her hold the little model, something he’d rarely, if ever, allow Patrick to do.

When Sister Bernadette once more extended the invitation to dinner, Patrick declined. He’d given a work-related excuse, but in reality he was feeling too much to be around others, even those whose company he normally enjoyed. Watching Tim with Sister Bernadette opened up emotions he normally suppressed. The boy needed more than he could give him, and after some prodding from Tim and triple-checking with Sister Bernadette, Patrick gave his permission for his son to join the Nonnatuns for supper.

He’d squandered the few hours alone sitting in his car, trying to decide whether or not to make another excuse and join them after all. After a while, it was too late, he assumed, and he listened to the radio while flipping disinterestedly through a few back copies of the _Lancet_.

Now, in bed, he stubbed out his cigarette and considered the picture tucked away in his briefcase: a gift from Tim in exchange for the biscuits the nuns had sent home with him. Scrawled under the words THANK YOU in red crayon were a few drawings: the Spitfire, Sister Monica Joan with a towering plate of cakes, and Sister Bernadette, holding hands with a little Tim in Cub’s uniform. The picture had tugged at Patrick’s guilty conscience. The Nonnatuns were lovely people, but a house full of busy nuns and nurses wasn’t really a substitute for a consistent maternal presence in the boy’s life, and they had so many others to care for.

Patrick burrowed back under the blankets, trying for an hour or so of real sleep. As he drifted off, he remembered Marianne falling to bits when Tim was born, her heart so full to see his soulmark matched hers to the last freckle.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a medical emergency in this chapter that involves mention of some indirect self-harm. If that's not something you want to read about, feel free to skip over the section between the horizontal lines, or skip this chapter entirely. You should still come out with the main storyline more or less intact.

Cynthia hummed brightly as she pinned up a string of colorful pennants outside the Community Centre. She looked forward to the summer fete every year. It marked her anniversary of working at Nonnatus House, and had been the first event to make her truly feel like part of the community. She loved helping with decorations and planning activities for the children--in past years, thanks to her small stature, she had always been asked to partner with one child or another for the three-legged race.

Climbing down from the ladder, she surveyed the scene: Fred erecting the coconut shie with a swarm of Cub scouts, Jane gingerly setting out tombola prizes on a card table, Mrs. B overseeing the station of tea and home-baked cakes organized by the local primary school parents. Soon, the area would be filled with laughter and music by the Girl’s Brigade pep band. Cynthia breathed deeply, already smelling the first of the fresh popcorn popping across the way.

Re-emerging from the shed where she’d left the ladder, she came upon a fuming Trixie.

“Clifford bloody Raines isn’t here, and I’ve just got a call from his so called _agent_ ,” she gestured in the air, each word out of her mouth like a poison dart, “that he won’t be later, either.”

“Oh dear,” Cynthia laid a hand on Trixie’s shoulder. Her friend was so angry her eyes were watering. “Well, I’m sure we’ll work something out.”

“I know we will--if anyone can work a miracle in under ninety minutes, it’s Sister Julienne. I’m only angry that low-down, scummy, small-pri--”

“Trixie!”

One of the Cubs had found his way across the usually empty lot and was looking at Cynthia with urgency in his eyes.

“Sorry, sweetie,” Trixie squeezed her hand and gave a stiff upper lip smile. “I’m only angry at that coward for adding a hiccup to a lovely day. And I suppose,” she said, gazing down at her thumbs, each of which was marked with a letter: M on the right, C on the left. “I’ll have to work out what these mean now I know they don’t stand for ‘Clifford, comma, Moviestar’.”

Cynthia giggled, releasing her friend’s hand and turning to the little boy waiting patiently beside the raffle tent.

“Hello, Roger. Did you have a question to ask me?” He blushed when she said his name, and looked down at his shoes.

“I was wondering, Nurse Cynthia, if you would be my partner for the three-legged race. Only my sister was supposed to but she’s not coming no more.”

“Oh, of course I can,” Cynthia beamed. “But what’s happened to Susan? You two always make a lovely pair.”

Roger squirmed. “I’m not supposed to say nothing, Nurse.” Cynthia racked her brain: Susan was eighteen, generally healthy, but it had been a few months since she’d seen her in person.

“I understand you want to take care of your sister, Roger. But if she’s ill, I can help.” She knelt down and found the boy with tears in his eyes.

“I dunno what’s happened,” he sniffed. “She told me not to tell nobody about the blood, but I think you should ‘elp her if you can. I’m so sorry, Nurse.”

“You did the right thing,” Cynthia squeezed his arm. “Now, in case I don’t make it back in time for the race…”

After passing him off successfully to Jane, who ensured he was provided with milk and biscuits, as well as a race partner, Cynthia ran headlong into Doctor Turner.

“Doctor! I’m so sorry, but something’s come up, and I think it may be quite serious.” The fete had just begun, and she felt a little pang of guilt at tearing him away from Timothy so soon after they’d arrived.

Thankfully, a wee Scottish blessing caught them up from behind. “Ah, Timothy, just the person I wanted to see! I discovered an unfamiliar butterfly by the delphinium this morning and was hoping you might help me to identify it,” Sister Bernadette exclaimed, taking him by the arm. Doctor Turner exchanged a look with her that seemed to convey his gratitude without saying a word, Cynthia noticed. It was odd to see the normally solitary Sister Bernadette so easy with anyone, let alone the Turners. She felt guilty for noting it, like she was intruding on a private moment, and made to turn away.

“Nurse?” The doctor urged her toward the gate and his waiting MG.

“It’s Susan Allerton. Her brother Roger says she’s not well, and she seems to have lost a fair bit of blood. I don’t think there’s much parental supervision where the Allertons are concerned.”

Doctor Turner nodded. “I know the family. We’d better take my car.”

* * *

 They arrived to the flat to find her sweating violently, fitting on the bed. A bloody rag was wrapped around Susan’s thigh, and when she stopped moving enough for them to examine her, Cynthia found a name crudely etched and festering over a now pulled, burnt-looking soulmark. The room smelt of bleach. Doctor Turner made a noise of disgust and disappointment.

“I’ve heard of these underground stick and poke operations. It’s infuriating enough this many people are so bothered about the damn things,” he was now muttering, “but to put your life on the line--call an ambulance, please, Nurse Miller.”

Tetanus. The diagnosis played in her head as she watched them wheel the poor girl away. Cynthia had had a good enough look at the scars to note that the name she’d had tattooed--Michael--replaced the name of a girl she knew to be a good friend of Susan’s. Cynthia Miller had never been one to judge, but if instinct was anything to go by, she knew Susan must have been desperate.

“A shame, really,” said the paramedic as he closed the doors on the girl. “Idiotic decision to begin with, but if she was hoping to erase something… whatever back-alley scrubber did this to her, it’s not hiding anything. You can still read ‘Pamela’ underneath.”

Cynthia willed her glare to leave a mark as the ambulance drove away. She knew better than most the longing for a soulmark to send a more conventional message than it did. Hers was no more than a squiggle, something that looked a bit like a B but could definitely be an M, or maybe not a letter at all. She had to lift her hair and contort herself in front of a mirror to see it at the nape of her neck, so usually she left it out of sight and out of mind. But she still remembered the pangs of hope, jealousy and shame she’d felt as a thirteen year old girl with no name’s meaning to chase, while all her friends giggled about Grahams and Ians and Pauls. There had been moments when she’d have given anything to have someone scratch a proper mark in place of hers.

* * *

 In any case, the medics had seemed confident in a full recovery, and Doctor Turner had them both back to catch the very end of the three-legged race. She whooped as Sister Bernadette and Timothy tumbled across the finish line just before Roger and Jane. Like any well-trained nurse, her first instinct had been to move toward them, to make sure they were unharmed, but Tim had untied their legs and was running to claim his prize, and Doctor Turner arrived on the scene before she’d managed to make her way through the crowd. Cynthia lingered on him a moment, watching as he watched the sister hurry briskly into the Community Centre to tend to her scraped hand.

The doctor turned in her direction and Cynthia spun around, her cheeks burning.

“Roger! Well done,” she said as she knelt to give the boy a hug. In the corner of her eye, she saw Doctor Turner making his way toward the building.

Not long after, Trixie pushed a slice of Mrs. B’s lemon drizzle cake into her hands. “Saved this for you,” she smiled, licking icing sugar off her fingers. “I know it’s your favorite.”

“Thanks, Trixie,” Cynthia grinned, accepting the little plate. They leant against the buildings opposite the Community Centre, taking in the scene. “Don’t you want some, though?” Cynthia nudged her with the fork. “I feel we could both use a bit of cake, after today,” she said quietly.

“I’ve already eaten mine,” Trixie stubbed her cigarette out with the heel of her pump, nodding across the fete. “Looks like Sister Bernadette could use a slice, too,” she quipped. The nun had just emerged, tugging at the sleeves of her habit and walking quickly away from the fete. “Wonder what’s got her scapular in a knot.”

“Trixie!” Cynthia laughed. “She’s got a lot on her plate, surely. Come, let’s get some tea to go with this cake.”

Eyeing the queue at the tea and cakes stall, Trixie pushed through the doors to the Community Centre.

“Hello, Doctor Turner!” she called. The doctor jerked away from the tap, where it looked as though he was merely letting the water run.

“Hello, Nurse Franklin. Nurse Miller.”

“Tea, doctor? Cynthia and I were just about to make a pot.”

“Er--no thank you. I’m just on my way back outside, was just--erm--yes.” He looked around at everything but the two of them, finally removing a case of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his coat and pointing off somewhere at a spot behind them. “Good afternoon,” he said quietly, as he left.

“Poor man,” Trixie whispered. “I’m sure events like these bring back memories of the late Mrs. Turner.”

Over tea and the last of the lemon drizzle cake, Cynthia filled Trixie in on the events of the day.

“It’s not terribly unusual to have a soulmark of one’s same sex,” Trixie protested. “Though I suppose nowadays there are people frightfully against the idea.”

“Yes, but nobody can choose how they’re marked. Those could just be the names of--of dear friends, or future children.” Trixie raised her eyebrows, and Cynthia conceded. “I do have an Aunt June with a same-sex soulmark. She and Dot are very happy living together. My mother calls them ‘passionate friends,’ but most people just assume they’re spinsters, ‘widowed by the war,’ as my father says.”

“Passionate friends, that’s one I haven’t heard before,” Trixie giggled.

“But Susan and Pamela, I don’t know,” said Cynthia, sipping at her tea.

“Pamela? I know her, we’ve just seen her at clinic. Just married and due for a baby in eight month’s time.”

Cynthia nodded. She wondered how much Susan’s decision was influenced by the Allerton’s admittedly bigoted father and how much by a broken heart.

What must it feel like, she thought, her mind running over Susan’s story, Aunt June’s, and finally the image of Doctor Turner, steadying himself against the kitchen tap, looking older and sadder than she’d yet seen him. What must it feel like to know one’s soulmate, or to lose one? Cynthia couldn’t imagine.


	6. Chapter 6

Steam rose from the basin. The water was just as she liked it, hot enough to pink her skin and make the backs of her hands tingle. The old pipes in Nonnatus House meant the water was almost always either too hot or too cold for most people, but Sister Bernadette preferred it this way. Scalding as it was, the hot water made her feel clean.

She let out a little gasp as it ran over the scar on her palm, and turned off the tap. Examining her face in the mirror, she removed her wimple and began to scrub at her hands. It hurt; she’d barely let the water cool. She ran the soap over her forearms, willing it to wash away the name inscribed there. Her hands plunged once more into the hot water to distract her mind from the memory of last week’s fete.

She’d wanted him to know, thought a little voice inside of her. She scrubbed up to her elbows. She’d wanted him to know, and she’d wanted to know what might happen when he did. She dipped her head and splashed at her face. She’d wanted him to know and then she didn’t.

Panic shocked her body as she submerged her head in the basin; the heat made it feel as if her every pore was electric. The cool air hit her face and she gasped for breath. That day, Doctor Turner had just appeared beside them, his face in the sunlight making her squint as she tried to answer his greeting while Timothy tugged at the rope joining their ankles. Her palm had burned then, too.

“No need to amputate, Doctor.” She was a nurse, after all. No matter how much she might wonder what it would feel like to have him tend to the parts of her that hurt, it would be ridiculous and improper to give into the impulse. That, at least, had been what she’d told herself while absentmindedly standing in the Community Centre kitchen, trying to explain away the tug of regret she felt in her belly. Then of course he’d materialized in the kitchen, too, and the logical explanations melted away. “Yes,” she’d breathed. Yes, please take a look. Tell me then if you still don’t believe. Patrick.

As he drew her hand toward him, time seemed to slow. Her sleeve pulled back as her arm stretched forward, and he lowered his gaze to her fingertips. Her hand in his, his thumb brushed at the sleeve of her habit and he looked as though he was about to drink from her palm. She’d pulled away, then, shocked at the touch of his skin at the perimeter of the soulmark she wasn’t sure she was ready to share.

“I’m sorry,” he’d gulped. “That was unforgivable.”

“Who is it who decides,” she whispered, her back to him, “what it is forgivable and unforgivable?”

“I think you know that better than I do.” She could sense him frozen in place behind her, and willed him both to close the gap between them and not to move any closer.

“At this moment I only know that I am not turning my back on you because of you. I’m doing it because of him.” She wasn’t sure, in that moment, whether she had been referring to God or to the man whose memory had long been fading from her mind.

She had rushed away, then, brushing past him out the door, tugging her habit back down over her wrists. She’d find bandages back at Nonnatus House. The rest of the afternoon had been spent in prayer in her cell. Sister Bernadette thought God must be angry with her, or at least annoyed. Her prayers that day could not seem to follow one path; half of them pleaded with Him to preserve the doctor’s ignorance, while the other asked that He make her feelings plain to him. Had Patrick Turner recognized himself in her soul? The sister did not know. She hadn’t dared look him in the eye since.

When finally Sister Bernadette pulled the stopper from the basin and watched the water spin whirling down the drain, her face was calm. Practiced. No hair peeked from beneath her wimple. She took some comfort in the familiar recitation of early morning prayer, of singing, of her surrounding sisters. In the clinical room, she prepared her bag for the day’s calls. Forceps, she noted. Soap, nail brush, scissors, dressings. Gauze, sterile. Gauze, idioform. Pinard. Enema funnel. Syringe.

“Sister Bernadette! I suspected I’d find you here.” Sister Julienne perched in the doorway, hands clasped.

“I like to get a jump on the day’s work,” Sister Bernadette averted her gaze shyly into the darkness of the big leather bag.

“One of many characteristics that makes you an invaluable member of Nonnatus House,” Sister Julienne smiled. “I wondered if I might count on you, however, to leave your medical bag for the morning? I must attend to an unforeseen appointment on behalf of Sister Monica Joan, and hoped you might take my place at a rather important meeting.”

“Of course, Sister, whatever you need. Though I’d also be happy to accompany Sister Monica Joan, if you’re called to administrative matters.”

“That’s very kind of you, but actually I had already thought to send you in my place,” Sister Julienne said as she ushered her from the room. “Doctor Turner spoke quite highly of your ideas on the matter.”

Her heart dropped into her shoes.

This was how she’d found herself rushing down the steps, ten minutes late, hoping a very handsomely-dressed Doctor Turner couldn’t hear how loud her heart was beating through the thick wool of her habit. She’d never seen him spiffed up, she realized. It was strange. He smelt of Brylcreem. Not for the first time, she was reminded of the plain and unchanging nature of her appearance. Whatever the occasion, he would never see her, Sister Bernadette, looking better or worse than this.

“Very appropriate” was all she could muster on the matter of his tie. He sought her eyes and she slid into the front seat of the MG instead. Eyes on the road ahead. Ten years ago, taking the vow of obedience, she never thought it would lead her into such--what was this, temptation?

They walked side by side into the hall, faced by four men in suits and far more appropriate ties than Doctor Turner’s. They sat side by side as they argued, as he pled the case for Poplar over Chelsea, as she piped up to paint a picture of the district they both called home, to stress the dangers of contamination in a place so teeming with life. They left the room side by side, holding in the glow of victory until the door closed behind them, and he nearly skipped. Then, finally, he turned. She couldn’t help but meet his gaze.

“Congratulations, Doctor.” She beamed. “You were really,” she paused. Her cheeks were growing warm by instinct, but her joy at their success overrode the usual self-restraint. The way he’d defended their patients! The way his hair was combed, the way a bit of it had now come loose from the Brylcreem and flopped into his face. She looked down, fixing her gaze on the less-than-appropriate tie as her nerves got the best of her. “Quite tremendous.”

“As were you, Sister,” he said softly.

But was he merely returning a compliment paid by a colleague? They rode back in companionable silence; the sister, pulling at her sleeves, worried what might happen if she opened her mouth to speak. It might not be worth the consequences, whatever way he responded, to speak what was on her mind. She couldn’t risk spilling any more of the words on the tip of her tongue: Tremendous. Generous. Passionate. Kind. Clever. Charming.

When he interrupted their supper to deliver the good news, however, she allowed herself to look him in the eye. And whether or not he had seen his name on her skin, it seemed not to matter. The smile he gave, and the triumph that came with it, carried her through until the next Tuesday.


	7. Chapter 7

Doctor Turner turned off the engine of his car. The day he’d waited and fought for had finally arrived and, pushing through the throngs of already-impatient people waiting their turn for the X-ray machine, he couldn’t be bothered to suppress his joy.

“The queues at Upton Park aren’t ‘alf as bad as this, eh doc?”

“I promise we’ll be much more gentle with you than the West Ham crowd, Ted!” Dr. Turner clapped him on the back.

“Say doc, ‘ow long are we going to be waiting, then? My Nigel’s got to be at nursery this afternoon, see--”

“Not to worry, Mrs. Farnham! Everyone will get their turn, and it only takes a moment in the machines,” he chirped back brightly.

Slipping into the Community Centre, the doctor rolled up his sleeves and turned on the kitchen tap. As he scrubbed his hands in the hot water, he winced at the memory of what had happened here not so long ago. It _had_ been unforgivable. In the first place, who in their right mind would try kissing a nun? Sure, there were the bawdy jokers at the pub, or during the war, those rowdy men who’d propose anything with any woman… but him? _Patrick, you absolute muppet_.

And then there was the matter of her mark. Fortunately, the pause it had given him must have snapped them both out of the moment, and she’d pulled away. Handled herself much more appropriately than he had. But unfortunately, he thought rather sheepishly, she’d done so before he’d had a proper look. He felt guilty and degenerate at wanting, so badly, to know what it said. He’d had to stop himself peeking at her wrists all throughout the drive to County Hall, and now every time they worked together, too. It was a horrible invasion of her privacy. Unforgivable. And again, of course, she’d reminded him that day where her feelings lay, with “him.” The man who’d captured her heart before the war. Her soulmate.

He dried his hands and closed the doors behind him. Unforgivable, this feeling, but persistent.

“Doctor Turner!” Sister Evangelina waded through the crowds, clipboard in hand. “How’d you like me to organize the troops, then? Sister Bernadette’s just gone to fetch the last of the records for filing, so she’ll be in the van with you.”

“Excellent!” His nervous energy at the thought of the van’s close quarters made his voice louder than he’d meant it to be, and the Sister looked up at him with a curious smirk. Patrick cleared his throat. “It’s really thanks to her we’ve been able to arrange this.”

They both watched Sister Bernadette cross to the van, dwarfed by the large box in her arms. “Downplayed her role at that meeting, but I ‘spect she did more than she says, eh?” Sister Evangelina nudged him.

“Yes.” The box was pulling slightly at her sleeves. “I think they listened to her quite a bit more than they did me, if I’m honest.”

Sister Evangelina snorted. “Well, thank Him for her powers of persuasion, then. Now,” she took a deep breath, stepping toward the throngs. “Form a queue! Everybody, form a queue!” To Dr. Turner, she jerked her head toward the van.

Working in such close quarters alongside Sister Bernadette proved less nerve-wracking than he’d expected. They worked well together, and quickly. She, he noticed, was patient with the shy ones, persuasive with the X-ray alarmists, and firm with line-cutters and rule breakers. When one stubborn child wouldn’t step foot in the machine, Sister Bernadette made a pact: if you go, I’ll go.

With her chin nestled atop the machine, she looked over at him and grinned. He was glad, at that moment, that it wasn’t him in the machine; though he knew better, he imagined it might show how fast and huge his heart was beating, like in one of the cartoons Tim liked to watch.

By the end of the day, Patrick was exhausted but pleased. They’d screened what seemed like all of Poplar and then some, and the x-ray technician assured him he’d spotted fewer cases than expected that required further investigation. He was sorting through them now, as the doctor packed up the file folders. He’d offered to take care of loose ends and return them to Nonnatus House so that Sister Bernadette could make it back in time for vespers. Now, he thought to himself with a rather self-satisfied harrumph that he’d hardly had time to wonder about her mark at all in the midst of so much good work done.

Gerald, the technician, handed him the last of the x-rays. “These are the files I’ve marked for you to take a further look at. Good work today, Doctor,” he shook Patrick’s hand. “I’d tell you to take your time looking these over, but I’m afraid I have to get the van back by seven.”

“Understood. Thanks for your help today,” Patrick nodded, tucking the folders under his arm and climbing down the steps.

His first thought when he sees her file is the memory of his last night with Marianne. The pain, the waiting, the exhaustion. Tim. But he quickly pulls himself back to the present. His next thought is that he must refer her to another doctor for examination. How could he bring himself…? No, he has always served as the doctor for Nonnatus House, and it would be more inappropriate to refuse her his help, however insufficient his abilities and however complex his feelings. His next thought, an unforgivable one, he thinks almost immediately. It would be easy, surely, to examine an arm, take a pulse, pull up a sleeve. He won’t. He is not that kind of man, and not that kind of doctor. If he were to make any kind of reckless admission on this potential brink of disaster, it should be on his own feelings alone. His final thought, probably foolish: maybe it’s nothing, an error in the machine. He hopes. His faith is thin, but admittedly something in him has hoped more than usual in these last months. Maybe.

Sister Bernadette is the one to answer the door, taking the files from his hands with thanks.

“What a day we had, Doctor!”

“Yes.” Her smile is enough to break his heart all over again. “Could we speak in private?” Though she recovers quickly from the slip-up, he catches the way her face falters, and he feels once more the sting of his earlier transgression.

She betrays no such emotion when he shows her the slides.

“This has my name on it,” she announces, matter-of-fact.

He explains the lesions (small), their quantity (many), the film quality (basic). Sister Julienne is present for the examination, as is proper. There are crackles in both lungs, and further testing will be required. Dr. Turner remembers an article from a recent issue of _The Lancet_. The new triple treatment is supposed to be miraculous. Patrick remembers the way Tim wouldn’t let go of his mother’s hand, even after it had gone cold. He does not examine her wrists, and looks away as she buttons and unbuttons. It feels like a violation, and even if he were never to see her again, he would not look, would not betray whatever trust she still has in him. She keeps her eyes trained on the floor.

They don’t speak in the car the next morning--he has offered to drive her to and from the appointment with the specialist, and Sister Julienne has ensured she accept--but only, finally, as they arrive at the sanatorium.

“I’m sorry.” It’s all he can think to say as the engine shudders to a stop. “About--well, this, and... the other day. It was highly inappropriate of me, and I can assure you it won’t happen again.”

“Of course.”

“If it’s any consolation, I didn’t see--I mean, it isn’t any of my business, your… well. The name, whoever it is.”

She nods, slowly. “Thank you, Doctor Turner. You’ve been--” her brow crinkles. “More than kind.”

“Please,” he says before he can help it. “Call me--”

“Patrick.” Her eyes are a watery blue as she turns to him, and tugs on the sleeve of her habit. Her arm lays between them, and he can now, finally, read the name clearly: Patrick.

“Yes. Sorry,” he looks between her face and her wrist, his brain momentarily short-circuiting. “Oh.”

He is sure his face isn’t registering his emotions properly; there are so many of them. Whether or not he believes in soulmates, and though Sister Bernadette is absent from his skin, the shock of what appears, technically, to be his name printed on hers leaves him breathless.

“Patrick Buchanan,” she whispers fearfully. “He died coughing blood, too.”

“I see.” His eyes search the interior of the MG as if it will provide a suitable response. “I--I’m told the triple treatment is miraculous.”

“Yes. Well,” she clears her throat. “Thank you for the ride, Doctor.” Sister Bernadette is out of the car before he can stop her, and when he leaps out to follow her, a stern-looking nurse has already come down the drive to assist them.

“Hello, Sister. Welcome to St. Anne’s. Would you like this fine gentleman to accompany you inside?”

“That won’t be necessary. Thank you,” she nods to him.

“Come now, lass,” the nurse takes her case and gently places a hand on her shoulder. To Patrick, she gives a reassuring nod. “Not to worry, she’s in good hands.”


	8. Chapter 8

The first week will be the most difficult, she thinks. She anticipates the nausea, loss of appetite, vertigo; she has spent long enough studying the symptoms of tuberculosis and the side effects of its treatment methods. She foresees that she will miss her sisters at Nonnatus House, and also that she will be grateful for the time alone to untangle her thoughts. She knows that her final conversation with Doctor Turner will spin round and round the fishbowl of her mind. In spite of all this, however, she predicts that time and familiarity with the situation will soften all sharp edges.

Then, the first letter arrives. Nurse Peters brings it in with her tea and toast. Sister Bernadette waits until she has seen herself out.

She stares at the return address, from a Dr. P. Turner, turning the envelope round and round in her hands. He’s written it by hand, and the address is his own, rather than the official postal stamp for mail from the Maternity Home or the medical staff at Nonnatus. As her toast grows cold, a heat in her belly burns with embarrassment at the possibilities of the envelope’s contents. She contemplates simply throwing it in the fire, but her heart pains at the thought. After careful consideration, she slides it between the pages of her Bible for safekeeping, and pours her tea, noticing that Nurse Peters has left her a small creamer with a generous portion of milk. She hesitates at first, but drinks it all, thinking of Sister Evangelina.

The letter torments her, and she moves it out of sight, then finds it torments her more when it exists only in the depths of her mind, and wedges it back into the Bible, where she confronts his sloping penmanship each morning.

When Jenny and Trixie visit, she revels in their enthusiastic conversation about Jenny’s new beau Alec, and Chummy’s recent return from Sierra Leone.

“Oh, she brought back the most gorgeous fabrics,” Jenny gushes.

“You must give me the name of your dressmaker,” says Trixie with a wink, “I’d like to have mine made into a perky little daytime number.”

“I’m sorry, Sister Bernadette,” Jenny apologizes, “you must think us awfully frivolous.”

“Not at all,” the Sister shakes her head, a bit sheepish. “I quite like that you keep me up to date with the latest fashions. And how lovely to hear Chummy is expecting!”

“It feels like only yesterday we were all eavesdropping on her and Constable Noakes in the kitchen,” Trixie giggles.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sister Bernadette looks away out the window, taking a sip of her tea.

“Yes, Trixie, not all of us are _quite_ so rude!”

“Oh, come on, you two.” Trixie takes a biscuit from the tray on the table. “We all know the nuns of Nonnatus House are responsible for every successful romance inside its walls! Think, if Sister Evangelina hadn’t arranged Chummy’s first date, or if Sister Bernadette here hadn’t saved us all from Reverend Appleby-Thornton by setting him up with Jane,” she pouts. “I’m only offended you haven’t yet found me a chap.”

Jenny grins. “Romantics, the lot of you.”

“It’s wonderful to see you all happy,” Sister Bernadette smiles shyly.

“If only there were a way to repay the favor,” Trixie sighs. “They’ll have to begin naming children after you.”

Sister Bernadette giggles, thinking of a little baby girl named “Evangelina.” Though it’s not a modern name by any standards, that’s not the reason she can’t quite picture it.

“Oh! That reminds me,” Jenny bends down and begins rooting around in her bag. “I have something for you. Young Timothy Turner insisted I deliver it personally.”

Sister Bernadette realizes her time away from Nonnatus has unraveled her practiced calm, and fights to control the butterflies in her stomach at the mention of the name Turner, grateful Jenny is still bent double and Trixie has just locked eyes on a particularly handsome young doctor.

Wrapped around a little matchbox is a note, tied round with an elastic band.

“Do open it, Sister, I’ve been dying to know what’s inside.” Trixie peers over as she slides it open.

“A dead butterfly!” Jenny crinkles her nose.

“ _Pieris brassicae_ ,” reads Sister Bernadette, her eyes skimming over the brief note. “He wants me to ask the doctors for a diagnosis. Apparently,” she can’t help grinning, “it’s not his father’s area.”

Between that visit and the next, Nurse Peters brings her a sheaf of paper, pens, and envelopes.

“I thought you might be running low on materials with which to respond to your letters,” she says, indicating the unopened envelope peeking out from under her Bible. When Nurse Peters returns later with tea and bourbon creams, the supplies remain untouched. Instead, Sister Bernadette leafs through her Bible. Though the letter flutters into her lap, she stubbornly continues to hide his words in God’s.

Later, she writes her usual missive to Nonnatus House, inquiring generally after the nurses, nuns, Fred. The other medical staff. About her own life, she writes, “there is little to report but slow progress and strict routine. I have much to learn from the nurses here.”

When Sister Julienne arrives, she apologizes for the time it’s taken her to come in person.

“I know you’re very busy. I wouldn’t want you to change anything on my account,” says Sister Bernadette, not quite meeting her eyes.

“My dear Sister, with you gone, everything has changed.” Sister Julienne smiles. “I confess that besides our concern for you, we found ourselves quite aflutter without your presence.”

“I’m sorry,” Sister Bernadette nearly whispers.

Sister Julienne takes her hand, then, and hers are cool and dry and firm. “It only speaks well of you that we all hope so dearly for your hasty return.” She produces a large tin. “And that Sister Monica Joan could be dissuaded from the consumption of this raspberry slice.”

Sister Bernadette’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“We hold you in our prayers.” Sister Julienne squeezes her hand.

“As I hold you in mine, Sister.”

For a few moments, the air between them is thick as Mrs. B’s raspberry slice.

“Sister, might I--” she finally begins, as Sister Julienne starts: “I feel there is something--”

“Pardon me, Sister,” she stumbles.

“Please, continue.” Sister Julienne looks to her expectantly. The care in her expression only makes what she is about to confide more painful. Sister Bernadette addresses her confession to the biscuit tin, instead.

“I fear--Sister, I fear I may _not_ return.” The backs of her eyes burn and she wills the tears not to fall, not yet. She does not want Sister Julienne to feel both betrayed and obligated to comfort her betrayer.

“The doctors assure me you are on a much quicker course of treatment than most,” says Sister Julienne gently. “They call you nothing short of a medical miracle. But I suspect that is not your worry.”

“No, Sister.” She can’t help it. She turns away to compose herself.

“My dear,” Sister Julienne’s arms encircle her, and for the first time, Sister Bernadette allows herself to unclench the tight fist of her heart. “What is it you can say to me now that you couldn’t write to me in a letter? Please,” she holds her gingerly by the shoulders, at arm’s length. The gesture, on its surface, seems a way to add distance between them, but Sister Bernadette knows her better than that. Something in Sister Julienne’s stare has always cut straight through her. “Unburden yourself, and I will listen.”

“All this time I thought it would go away,” she whispers. “I’ve kept it to myself, but I’m afraid I’ve been lying to you.”

“And I carry some of your burden, for not making time to listen,” Sister Julienne takes both of her hands in hers. “I intend to remedy that now, if you are ready.”

Sister Bernadette looks to the name on her wrist. With her sister’s hands on hers, she is reminded of her first night at Nonnatus House, and the mantra she has heard Sister Julienne repeat to her and others. _Caring for others is what we do_. It is care for the woman before her that strengthens her resolve to share, and to allow the sister to care for her.

“When I decided to join the religious life,” she begins slowly, “I believed very strongly in something I am no longer sure I believe in.” Her eyes are earnest as they finally meet her sister’s. “When I came to you, I hadn’t yet stopped grieving. I am sure it was right for me then, and I don’t doubt my choices, but--” she finds herself faltering, and Sister Julienne bends her head to meet her gaze.

“But what was right then may not always be so.”

“Yes. At first I was terrified I’d lost my faith. But now I wonder whether God has a different path in mind for me. There are things I want, deeply, things I can’t have in the religious life.”

“We’ve all felt that, those times of confusion.”

“I think--I think this may be more than confusion, Sister. I haven’t lost my faith. I took vows, but it feels as if I turn my back on something sacred whether or not I honor them.”

Sister Julienne nods, lowering her eyes in thought. “You have been tested. As we all have.” A tense silence lingers between them; Sister Bernadette can feel herself closing up once more at the notion of being tried and tested and weathering the storm. The explanation no longer feels sufficient, and she begins to pull her hands away and fold them in her lap.

“I cannot lead you where your heart must,” says the nun, unfurling her fingers and staring into her palm. “The decision you speak of is the first step in a journey that will not be an easy one.”

“That is why I need your strength, Sister. I feel as if God has given me a window, and I don’t know if I’m imagining something that isn’t there, or simply too afraid to open it.”

Sister Julienne is silent for a long while as she traces the mark on her palm. “Some things in life, Sister, are given to us in due course, and others we must reach out and grasp with both hands. I suspect you know which of these is true for you. And I trust you to do what you feel is right.”

That night, she begins to write: _Dear Patrick_.


	9. Chapter 9

            _Dear Patrick,_

She begins this way many times. In the meantime, a second letter arrives, and a third.

            _Dear Patrick, I feel both alone and alive. Unsure of the future and absolutely certain. I wonder if this is how you felt when I saw you last, just before you left._

            _Dear Patrick, The view outside my window at the sanatorium is very pleasant. It reminds me of the fields in Aberdeen,_

            _Dear Patrick, I had assumed you to be so vividly fixed in my memory that I could never forget, but I’ve realized I can no longer remember the details of your face. What color were your eyes?_

            _Dear Patrick, Do you remember how it felt to fall in love? Was it something you came upon, or something you decided? Sometimes I wonder if I loved you because it was something I was told should be so._

She uses up nearly all the paper working out how to begin, how to continue, how to end. She feels in a rush to transfer the words swimming around her head onto paper, but can’t manage to make them line up in a proper order.

Nurse Peters knocks softly on the door with a carafe of water and a reminder to keep hydrated. She raises an eyebrow at the mess of discarded paper by the bed.

“By the sight of it, he must either be the most interesting man in the world, or the least.”

Sister Bernadette blushes violently.

“I’m sorry, love, I didn’t mean to cause offence. Another letter came for you,” she says with a gentle wince, setting it atop the Bible where the first is still visible as a bookmark. “Would this be a response to his last, then?”

“Not quite,” Sister Bernadette manages. “I’m having trouble knowing where to begin.”

“I find it helps just to close one’s eyes and start. The rest follows, a bit higgledy-piggledy in my case, but if we never begin we never end, eh?”

“I suppose there’s some truth in that, Nurse.”

She shields her paper from eyes that aren’t trying to pry, and smiles the nurse out the door until her heart calms down enough to write again. She takes a deep breath.

            _Dear Patrick,_

            _How to begin, again? I suppose some people would begin a letter like this with “I miss you,” but it’s strange--I feel as if it isn’t possible for me to miss you. It has been so long, I think you’ve become a part of me. You, I told myself, were the reason I joined the religious life; I kept you in mind as I took my vows and when I faltered on my path. Your memory took the place of a certainty about my life I did not yet possess for myself._

            _We were so young when we met, and so young when we said goodbye. Maybe our souls weren’t yet fully formed. I don’t want you to think I didn’t love you, or that I don’t. But I have changed. My beliefs have changed, even if my faith has not. I believed so singularly that you were my destiny. I believed this to the point of blindness, I think, because we were raised to believe it. I loved you, but I am no longer sure I believe in the singular clarity of soulmates. I am no longer sure I should forego the future I envisioned because of a belief I held so early in life._

            _I think, if you were here, you might feel the same. I will always consider you a dear friend and you are now, and have been, a dear memory. However, I feel as though if I am to move forward on this path and grasp the right future, I must say goodbye to the way things have been._

            _Love,_

            _Shelagh_

Eventually, she folds this into an envelope with no address. After several moments of hesitation, she begins the next letter.

            _Dear Patrick,_

She writes this and then scratches it out.

            _Dear Dr. Turner,_

Something in this feels false, too. For several minutes, she simply copies out his address on an envelope as slowly as she can, with her return ( _Sister Bernadette, c/o St. Anne’s Sanatorium, etc. etc. etc._ ) on the flap.

Eventually, she leaves the letters stuffed in between pages of her Bible and tries to forget them for the rest of the afternoon, but returns to them at last when the sky outside is black and her eyes won’t find sleep. Sitting up in bed, she twists on the lamp beside her bed and pulls open the Bible and a pen. The rest will follow, she thinks.

            _Dear Patrick,_

            _Thank you for your letters. I confess I have not yet opened them, though I have imagined all manner of possibilities as to what they contain. I send this with my sincere apologies and the eventual promise of their reading. Before now I have needed time to think, and even now I hesitate, for fear my next actions will be swayed by their contents._

            _I was untruthful to you in our last meeting. I feared what was to come in treatment, and I feared what you might think if you knew the extent to which my beliefs had been shaken. I have led you to believe that my faith in destiny, and my commitment to my past, is unshakeable. That my beliefs and boundaries are rigid, at the expense of my own feelings and those of the people I hold dear. I worry that my misleading you in this manner has caused you distress, and for that I am truly sorry._

            _Though my faith in God has not lessened, my beliefs have, of late, developed in a different direction. I believe God has another path for me, and I think I have known it for a long time. Sister Julienne knows this, and advises that from the sanatorium I convalesce at the Mother House in Chichester. I cannot tell you exactly where my future lies, but I can tell you that I don’t believe Sister Bernadette will return to Poplar._

            _Thank you for your kindness, respect, and companionship. On my return, and in the future, I promise to offer you only the truth. To begin, if I may be bold: I miss you._

She hesitates. Nurse Peters had no advice to give about the ending of a letter. Sister Monica Joan might say that it wasn’t necessary to write a letter with its sending in mind; that the anxiety about the reaction of its recipient might hinder the truth. She often wrote letters she never intended to send.

Sister Bernadette takes a deep breath and picks up the pen.

            _Yours,_

Then again, Sister Monica Joan never signed her letters. She merely expected their recipients to know intuitively who’d written; she called them “cosmic messages.”

On one hand, the doctor knows her only as Sister Bernadette, but on the other she is sure that name no longer fits who she knows herself to be.

            _Sister Bernadette_

She writes on a spare bit of paper, and next to it:

            _Shelagh_  
            Bernadette  
_S_

On the paper she simply blots at the comma. _Yours._ It must do for now. She sets the paper carefully by the side of her bed where she can see it, next to the envelope. Perhaps she’ll think up a better version in the morning. In the meantime, she falls asleep memorizing his address.

By the time she wakes, she’s made her decision. Because it is a path, she thinks, but also a choice. She rings for the nurse.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Nibbling absentmindedly on a biscuit and cupping his hands around a mug of tea, Patrick stared into the black outside as his fingers itched toward pen and paper. He had sent a letter nearly every week and written three for every one he sent. He knew, taking his cue from the number of letters received--a round nil--that he should not write another. Surely he had said too much. But part of him felt as if, possibly, he had not said enough.

Yes, he had apologized for crossing so many lines, for prying into her personal life. He had thanked her for her friendship over the last few months, and told her how much he respected her as a nurse and as an individual. He passed on Timothy’s greetings and eager affection. At times, he had relayed medical information that excited him, devolving into what Tim would call his “Doctor Voice” and even once including a relevant clipping from _The Lancet_. But had he truly told her how he felt?

 _Dear Sister Bernadette._ No harm writing, and no need to put it in an envelope when he was finished. He’d drained his tea and might as well do something with his idle fingers that didn’t involve another biscuit.

_Dear Sister Bernadette,_

_I hope this letter finds you even stronger and in better health and spirits than the last. I have heard from the nurses at Nonnatus that your case has progressed more quickly than most, thanks to early diagnosis. I find myself once again grateful to you for your work in bringing the screening van to Poplar._

_Christmas is fast approaching, and the spirits in Poplar are palpably high. The buzz of the holidays seems to start earlier each year. Tim has been needling me about getting a silver tree this Christmas, and expressed his concern that you might not be home to Poplar in time for the celebrations; he says you make the best paper snowflakes of anyone at Nonnatus._

_The holidays have me thinking more deeply than usual about what is important to me. I don’t know if my letters have reached you--if they’ve been overly forward, or left you uncertain as to my feelings. In any case, in the spirit of honesty and goodwill, I thought I should be plain._

_I have never believed in the idea of soulmates, and am, as you know, a firm believer in free will. But if there is such a thing as a soul, I hope you will not be bothered by the confession that I feel, if it’s possible, that mine lies in very close proximity to yours. I’m not sure how to explain it, except to say that when I see you smile, when I see you’re happy, I am happy. When you’re troubled, I feel it, too. I feel as though I have known you as long as I can remember, and that there are things I want to tell you--though I feel as if you will know the feelings before I speak them._

_I hope my letters have not pushed you away. I want nothing more than your friendship, if you’ll still allow it. Anything further would be more than I could dream of. If you will give me an indication your soul is at peace, mine will also be so._

_Your friend,_

_Patrick_

He sat quietly for a long while after the ink had dried. After minutes had passed, he shut off the lamp on the desk. He’d shelve that letter with the others left unsent.

When he woke up the next morning to the smell of Tim burning toast, he had a crick in his neck and dryness in his mouth.

“Dad, I have a card to send to Sister Bernadette. Can I have money for a stamp? Can I take it to the post office on my way to school? Please?”

“Hold on,” Patrick rubbed at his face. “If you stop at the post office you’re going to be late.” His eyes searched the room for the watch he’d removed last night.

“No I’m not, if I leave now I’ll get there in plenty of time.” Tim shoved a large corner of toast into his mouth. “And it’s the last day before half-term, so it’ll just be review and I already know it all, anyway.”

Patrick sighed. Another day he’d speak to his son about how being a know-it-all wasn’t always considered a good thing, but today, he simply tossed Tim a handkerchief and told him to wipe the jam from his cheeks.

“There’s some change in my jacket pocket.”

It was only that evening, when he’d finally returned from clinic, and rounds, and retrieving Tim from cub scouts, and they’d eaten their regular Thursday night fish supper, when Patrick settled down at his desk to finish up his paperwork for the morning, that he noticed something was missing. Patrick shuffled through the papers on his admittedly untidy desk with increasing panic, opening drawers and finally crouching on all fours to peer underneath the desk, until Tim looked up from his library book.

“Have you lost something, Dad?”

“Just--” How to explain to his ten-year-old son that what he was worried about was a love letter to a nun that he’d written in an overtired confession of emotion and would be mortified if anyone discovered? “A letter.”

“To Sister Bernadette?”

Patrick turned so sharply his head thwacked against the underside of the desk.

“Ouch. That doesn’t sound good; you should check for concussion. Are you dizzy?”

He touched his head gingerly. “No, thanks, Tim.”

“And I put your letter in with my card, this morning. So you don’t have to look for it down there anymore.”

“You what?” Patrick struggled to stand.

“Do you feel like you might cry, dad? I read in _The Lancet_ that concussions can make you feel like crying.”

“No, no--” Patrick winced. “Did you say you posted my letter?”

“I thought since I was sending her something anyway--was that bad?”

“I just, well,” he sighed. “I had decided I wasn’t going to send it after all.”

“Why not?”

“Well, sometimes, er,” Patrick groaned, easing himself creakily into a chair. “Sometimes it helps just to write down how you feel.”

“How do you feel?” Tim closed his book and stepped closer to his father, raising three fingers. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Like I could use a drink,” he grumbled. “And Tim, I don’t have a concussion.”

“How many fingers, dad!”

“Three.” Patrick bustled to the kitchen and pulled out a bag of frozen veg to hold against his forehead as his mind raced.

If Tim had posted the letter, he had maybe two, three days until she received it, and if she actually read the thing--more likely, he cursed, as it was sent in an envelope from Timothy--and replied, he’d hear back… possibly in a week. A week of overthinking and self-doubt compared to the last few months was nothing. And also agony.

“Dad?”

Patrick sighed. He must look a sad sight, even to Tim, with thawing pea juice melting down his forehead in the middle of a dark kitchen.

“Yes, son?”

“I’m really sorry for posting your letter without asking.” The boy’s eyes were wide, and his arms fidgeted, twisting behind his back.

“It’s okay, Tim. I’ll figure out… something.”

“Well, see, I was thinking--well, I ran into Nurse Trixie on my way to the post office this morning, and--” Tim hesitated, calculating, “well, I was late, like you said I would be, and she said she was going there anyway, later today or tomorrow.”

Patrick’s breath caught, his heart thumping.

“So I gave it to her with the money to post. She might not’ve….” He trailed off.

Patrick dropped the peas into the sink and picked up his keys from the kitchen table with one clumsy motion.

“Right. I’ll be--right back--”

“Can I come?” Tim looked hopeful, and Patrick stooped to pull him into bear hug. Something he didn’t do often enough, he thought.

“No. Bed.”

It was Nurse Noakes who answered the door when Patrick arrived.

“Oh, Doctor Turner, jolly fine evening, isn’t it? Do come in, mind the bump--sorry--even larger than usual--I knocked over that umbrella stand with the poor old bean the other day when I wasn’t paying attention… do come in, I just put the kettle on…”


	11. Chapter 11

“Dear, no, I think Trixie must have posted it,” Nurse Noakes blanched. “She generally does the girls all the jolly good favor of taking personal post out on her rounds on a Thursday afternoon, and, seeing as it is Thursday nighttime, I’m afraid…” She pulled a face, rubbing her swollen belly. “I’m sorry, Doctor.”

“Oh, it’s, erm. No trouble. As I said,” Patrick cleared his throat, “Tim included one of the, er, pages of my latest medical report in the envelope he gave her, but I’m sure I can, um. Recreate it.”

“Yes, well.” Chummy folded the corner of her napkin, eyeing Doctor Turner’s rapidly cooling tea. “Ah! I do also believe we have the phone number at St. Anne’s, if it’s--”

“No!” The doctor stood abruptly. “That’s quite all right. Thank you, Nurse, I should be going.”

“Doctor Turner! What a pleasant surprise,” a cool voice rang out into the kitchen.

“Hello, Sister. I was just checking up on a clerical matter, but I’m afraid I must get back,” he said, failing to make eye contact.

“Before you go, I have a letter for you,” Sister Julienne tossed over her shoulder as she set down her bag.

“A letter, what ho!” Nurse Noakes exclaimed, catching the doctor’s eye and rising to her feet. “What a lovely--oof.” She winced, clutching her stomach. “Pardon me, I am quite literally full of one terribly large bean.”

Patrick’s heart was pounding through his chest as Sister Julienne led him to her office. Likely it was a medical matter, something dry and clinical, but he couldn’t help but feel she was looking at him differently. He felt, as he often did, unsettled by the way she looked through him and guilty about what he hoped she might overlook in his inner thoughts.

“The address is a bit smudged, so the mail office likely sent it here knowing we could connect it to the right doctor. It’s,” she hesitated. “From Sister Bernadette.”

“Ah.” He tried to say as little as possible, paranoid that the nun had already sensed his inner turmoil from involuntary physical reactions (was his face red? breath short? pupils dilated?) and certain she’d read more into anything he said. Sister Julienne held his gaze for a moment before relinquishing the letter. Should he confide in her? The prospect seemed highly inappropriate.

“Perhaps an update on her diagnosis. You are her primary care physician, after all.”

“Yes.”

“Well.” She took a breath and was slow to release it before addressing him again. “Good--”

A knock on the door interrupted them. “I’m terribly sorry to interrupt, Sister, but I think I might be going into labor, actually. I--gosh!” Chummy doubled over against the door frame, breathing heavily. Sister Julienne rushed immediately to her side, and Patrick followed, though not before tucking the letter safely into the chest pocket of his overcoat. “I was wondering if one of you might be so kind as to call Peter.”

“Of course, my dear. And I think it best if he meets us at the maternity home.”

“We’ll take my car,” Patrick offered.

“Actually,” came a shaky voice from out in the hall, “I think we’d better call an ambulance.”

Patrick spent the rest of the night operating almost exclusively in Doctor Brain; when Trixie pointed out the spot of blood at the back of Nurse Noakes’s uniform, he knew he must avert the the sea of emotions beginning to overtake him if they were to weather this particular storm. As Sister Julienne helped the patient into a comfortable position on the bench in the hall, he telephoned Sergeant Noakes to inform him of the situation. Nurse Franklin held her hand. They each examined her as they waited for the ambulance to arrive, the silence in the hall tense with the perennial possibility one of them could be called away at any moment by a ringing telephone.

When Peter arrived, Doctor Turner averted his eyes while he kissed his wife’s hand. He forced away a memory that rose to the surface of his mind, then, of the same couple in the same hallway. Hoping to borrow the use of the autoclave at Nonnatus, he’d slipped in the door to interrupt the two of them embracing; Chummy in a brilliant blue-green dress positively caked in mud, hair mussed, and Peter looking at her like despite it all, he’d never seen a woman more beautiful. Patrick had made his excuses and hastened past them into the kitchen, only to stumble into Sister Bernadette, cradling a newborn piglet.

“Isn’t it romantic,” she’d sighed. He’d been confused until he realized she was gesturing not to the animal in her arms, but out into the hall. Sister Evangelina had come bustling in before he could think up a suitable response, but he remembered being unsettled by the young woman’s gaze, and by the momentary warmth of standing so close to another human being outside the clinical necessity of an examination room.

In the present, Sergeant Noakes knelt in that same hallway while they waited for the ambulance to arrive, looking at his wife in much the same way he had that day: as if, despite her cries and his worry, she was capable of making the sun shine even in the dead of night.

“Oh, Peter!” Chummy cried. “I thought this was the one area of my life I might not do something clumsily, but--”

“Camilla,” he murmured. “Everything you do is brilliant. And this lot knows what they’re doing, you’ll be all right. You’re so strong.”

“And you’re doing so well,” piped Trixie from behind a plastered-on smile.

“Doctor,” whispered Sister Julienne. “I suspect a placenta previa. I think she may require an emergency Caesarean.”

Patrick nodded. “The ambulance is taking far longer than it should. It’s been a while, but I do have all the necessary tools in my bag.”

Trixie and Sister Julienne made quick work of transforming one of the rooms into a comfortable operating theatre, spreading sanitary sheets and preparing instruments while Doctor Turner administered anaesthetic to a steely-nerved Camilla Noakes.

“Don’t let go of my hand,” she whispered from the bed to Peter, sitting beside her.

In the end, the operation was nearly complete before the ambulance could get through the snarl of traffic brought to a stand-still by the evening’s thick blanket of fog. With the paramedics’ help, Doctor Turner stitched the incisions back up as Sister Julienne tended to the baby, Sergeant Noakes’s tears of worry mixing with tears of joy.

“She going to be okay, Doctor Turner?” he asked, puppy-dog eyes wet and glistening.

“We’ll send you all to the hospital to make sure of it, but yes, I think so.” He allowed himself a smile for the first time all night.

After seeing the Noakes’s off in the ambulance, witnessing Sister Evangelina--newly arrived back home--slip Peter a bottle of something strong and brown, and doing his part to clean up the temporary operations room, Patrick sat recovering in the MG as the sky began to turn. Filled with adrenaline after a long, nerve-wracking night, he knew he’d never get to sleep, and instead sat hunched over his briefcase completing the evening’s paperwork. His body was so tense that he flung his pen into the air at a rap on the window.

“Sorry to startle you, Doctor,” Trixie motioned for him to roll down the window. “It’s just something Chummy mentioned while we were waiting earlier.” She pushed an envelope through to him. “My rounds ran late yesterday, and she said there was an important paper in there by accident.”

“Ah! Thank you very much. Timothy was just so eager to send her a Christmas card, he must have included a drawing on the back of one of my files,” Patrick let out a hollow chuckle. “Must keep a tidier office.”

“When you do post it, you’ll have to include last night’s story. An emergency C-section in Nonnatus House--it’s the kind of medical miracle happy ending story that Sister Bernadette positively lives for.”

“It was quite a feat, wasn’t it.” His laugh grew more genuine at the thought of Sister Bernadette and medical miracles with happy endings.

“And you come out quite the hero.” He wasn’t sure, but he thought that even in her shaky state, she threw him a wink.

Trixie took her leave for, he suspected, a cigarette round the back of the building and some quiet time alone after all the stress of the night’s work. Patrick slid open the envelope to find Tim’s neat drawing of a snowman in a cardigan and his own hopeless letter. He scanned over it again before slipping it all back in the envelope and into the pocket of his overcoat with a sigh. Fingers fumbling against paper already hastily shoved inside, he finally remembered: Her letter. For a moment, he let his words rest next to hers, as they nestled beside his heart. But it wasn’t long before curiosity overcame him.

 _Dear Patrick_ , the letter began.  _Yours_ , it ended. The paper shook in his hands as he turned it over, looking for a name to confirm that what he’d just read was really from Sister Bernadette--or did he really have a concussion, as Timothy had suggested? Was he hallucinating? His ears were ringing.  _I miss you_. Were those her words, to him? On the reverse side he found only a postscript:

_P.S. I have decided not to convalesce at the Mother House; it is no longer a home to me. I plan to return to Poplar on Friday the 29th._

_Friday the 29th_. Today was Friday the 29th. The sun was rising on Friday the 29th. He took stock of his blood-spattered appearance and musty smell, and fumbled his keys into the ignition. He might at least change his shirt before riding off into the sunrise to find his soulmate.


	12. Chapter 12

Shelagh slid the last button into place and smoothed the fabric of her jacket. Sister Bernadette didn’t like to think herself vain, but she was positively transfixed by the image in the mirror. It was like time had slowed and begun to drip backward into her utility shoes, like the rainwater of so many years ago. She wasn’t sure quite how to fix her hair. Her fingers tied it swiftly back; they were practiced at hiding curls under wimples, but knew nothing of current fashions. And today felt like an important day to look, if not her best, well, then at least not as she had before. She straightened her glasses.

At this stage of her convalescence, she had stopped subtly resenting the childishness of having her toast served to her in soldiers alongside a soft-boiled egg and tea. This morning, her last at St. Anne’s, she felt a touch of nostalgia dipping the bread into the yolk. She’d miss the peace the place had offered her. She’d miss Nurse Peters. She might not admit it to herself, but the past few months had finally made her feel as though she deserved to be taken care of. Not just spiritually, treated with the kindness and religious love of her Nonnatun sisters, but physically--she’d learned to find more joy in tangible sensations. The joy of tea, just the way she liked it. The joy of soft blankets and a warm fire. The joy of taking a walk in the fresh air, thinking of many things or nothing at all, and the pleasure of coming in to a slice of cake when it was over. The joy of letting one’s heart want what it wants. She hadn’t been unhappy in the religious life, Shelagh thought, but perhaps she hadn’t allowed herself to be truly happy.

“Nearly ready, duck?” Nurse Peters knocked softly at the open door frame. “When your gentleman sees what you’ve been hiding under that habit all this time…” she whistled. “Knock his socks clean off, I expect.”

Shelagh turned quickly away from the mirror with a sniff. “He’s not my gentleman, and I haven’t been hiding. And yes, I am nearly ready.”

“You look lovely.”

“Really?” Shelagh hesitated. “I don’t look a bit...dated?”

The nurse looked her up and down. “It has been a moment since I’ve seen shoes like that on a woman of your age, but with a bright smile, chin up, and a confident stride, any outfit looks timeless.”

“Hmmph.” She snuck another look at herself in the mirror.

“You don’t need heeled pumps to turn heads, love.”

“Well, I don’t want to turn too many--do you think I’ll stick out too much?” she tugged at the hem of her skirt. Nurse Peters merely raised an eyebrow. “I just want to look like a normal woman, riding the bus.”

“The bus? Good heavens, I thought someone was sending for you!” Nurse Peters frowned. “You’ve every right to do as you please, of course, but I wouldn’t advise… and in this damp--”

“Please.” Shelagh’s voice was soft. “I think I need to do this for myself.”

The nurse considered her for a moment.

“I promise you I’ve studied the routes and timetable,” Shelagh smiled. “I just… I want to leave here on my own two feet.” _Belonging to no one but myself_ , she thought.

“Right, then. Well. Come on, have a biscuit and a cuppa before you go.” 

* * *

 

Across the county, Patrick was choking down his own brew in front of the mirror as he adjusted his tie. He’d gone with a plainer blue one. _To match her eyes_ , the mushy part of him piped up. He felt a bit guilty, as he always did after a night spent working, that he hadn’t been home to see Tim off to school, but he judged by the boy’s empty bed that he’d managed, as he always did, and calculated that he had plenty of time to be out and back before his son returned from cubs.

_Right then_ , he thought, pushing the hair from his eyes. It was a bit unkempt, but the absence of Brylcreem in his cabinets couldn’t be helped. He bounded down the stairs and out to the MG, where he nearly jumped when he saw who was inside.

“Tim! I’ve only been inside ten minutes, how--”

“I saw your car. I thought I could come with you on your rounds,” he said through a mouth of bread.

“I’m not going on my rounds,” Patrick grumbled, “and you should be in school, young man.”

“School let out yesterday,” came the boy’s muffled voice as he took another large bite of the bacon butty. “And where are you going?”

“Where did you get that?” he asked, eyeing the sandwich with a rumbling stomach. Tim held it out to him and he took a large bite.

“Dad, that’s like three bites of mine!” Tim protested. “And I got it down the road, at Jonesy’s. You always say I shouldn’t use the stove on my own, and I was hungry.”

Patrick grunted, and swallowed hard. “It’s not polite to talk with one’s mouth full,” he said ceremoniously, trying to cover up his guilt at forgetting the holidays and leaving his son without breakfast.

Tim continued to chew quietly until they’d passed out of Poplar before asking again. “So where are we going, dad? Is it an adventure? Will I get a badge?”

“Er--maybe a bit of an adventure, yes.”

“Hiking? We don’t have any camping gear… is it orienteering? Dad?” He kicked his legs idly against the glove compartment.

“No, Tim.” He cleared his throat. “We’re going to see, uh, well. We’re going to see Sister Bernadette.”

“Oh.” His legs grew still. “Dad?”

“Yes, Tim.”

“Did Trixie send my card?”

Patrick fumbled in his pocket with one hand, the other lightly guiding the steering wheel. He emerged with the snowman drawing. “No, you can give it to her in person.”

“Oh. Cool.” He looked out the window at the trees whipping past, trying to follow each one til it was out of sight. “Dad?”

Patrick sighed. “Yes?”

“Are you going to give her yours?”

Patrick focused his eyes on the road ahead, unsure of his own answer and especially unsure of whether that was the same answer he’d give to his son.

“Or are you going to tell her in person how you feel?”

“I--it’s a long drive, Tim.”

“Only--” his voice caught, slightly, and his tone was so quiet Patrick glanced over. “After mum died Granny said we should always tell people we love them while they’re around to hear it.” He looked sheepish. “Sorry. Are you allowed to love a nun?”

“Er--” Patrick gaped.

“If you do, I think you should tell her. If she comes back to Nonnatus, you’ll never be allowed to say it around Sister Evangelina.” 

* * *

 

Shelagh was well-fortified by the time she left, and waited at the bus stop bundled in an extra scarf one of the nurses insisted she take with her. The bus arrived earlier than she’d predicted, which seemed an auspicious start. The driver had barely looked twice at her, and she sat by a window, secretly delighted. It was several minutes into the journey when she realized they’d just taken a turn towards “The North”; she hadn’t noticed the signs before, in all the mist. Hadn’t London been south of St. Anne’s? But the bus didn’t have a timetable, nor a list of stops, unlike the ones she had ridden on occasion in Poplar.

She contemplated waking the man slumbering in the seat opposite hers, but hated the idea of causing a fuss. And she was sure one musn’t interrupt the driver while on the road. She waffled for a few moments longer before taking her chance when the bus screeched to a halt at a small crossing.

“Pardon me, Sir,” she rushed forward, “but would you be so kind as to tell me where this bus stops next?”

“Epping, ma’am. We terminate in ‘arlow.” He reached for the gearshift as Shelagh blanched. “You need to get off, luv?”

“Yes, I’m afraid--oh, dear.”

Only once she started back on foot in the direction they’d come did she realize she’d left the scarf behind. The cool air fought through her coats, but she merely walked more quickly. The misty haze made her feel as if she was in a storybook, off to slay a dragon. If there hadn’t been someone she hoped to see when she returned to Poplar, she’d have resigned herself to being swept into the realm of the fairies to start a new life.

* * *

 

Just after Shelagh set off once more, the Turners arrived at St. Anne’s. The sharp-eyed nurse from several months ago recognized Patrick immediately.

“Already caught the bus, I’m afraid, Doctor.” She clucked her tongue at him. “Wouldn’t take no for an answer--she’s of a strong mind when she wants to be, our lass, eh?”

Though Tim jumped at the offer of biscuits, Patrick was quick to pull him back to the car. He didn’t like the way the nurse looked at him, like she knew more than he did.

Having failed to notice any buses on the way down, Patrick chose the opposite direction once on the road. The fog was less severe than it had been the night before, but mist still draped itself languidly across the fallow fields surrounding them. What was he looking for--did he think she’d still be there? Would he rush past a double decker and be able to spot her through the windows? All he could do was drive. Timothy was bouncing slightly in the seat beside him.

“What shall I do if I see her, Dad?”

“I--well, I’ll stop the car.”

“Shall I shout at her?” He craned his neck out the window. “Shall I shout, ‘STOP! Sister Bernadette!’?”

“No! Tim, no shouting. And I’m--I’m not sure she’s called Sister Bernadette any longer.”

“What’s she called, then?” Tim turned to him, puzzled, his hair still whipping about him in the breeze.

“Well, I--” Patrick could feel his cheeks warming. “I think she might be called--”

“Dad!” Timothy gasped. “I think it’s her! There’s a woman in the wrong clothes, and I think it’s her!” He stood on the floor of the car and reached his entire torso out the window. “STOP! Erm, WHATEVER YOU’RE CALLED!”

Patrick slowed the car as she turned. His hands shook as he put on the brake and told Tim to wait in the car.

* * *

Shelagh thought her mind might be playing tricks on her. That, or He was sending her some sort of signal. Or perhaps the Turners were just very good at wayfinding. In any case, her breath caught in her chest at the sight of Patrick Turner running out to her through the mist.

Patrick hesitated for a moment. He wanted to wrap her up in his arms and kiss her. He wanted to declare his love for her immediately. He wanted to show her his mark and say, I believe. I know you are the One. Instead, he reached out to cup her forehead, and felt her sink into him.

“What if it had started raining,” he asked softly. “What if you had got lost?”

“I was lost.” The words slipped out of her mouth almost before she thought about them. She smiled shyly toward her shoes. “I got the wrong bus.”

“I was on the right road,” he said, almost as if asking for her affirmation. Was this the right road? He had never felt more sure of anything, but a yearning in his chest needed to be sure she felt the same. “You must be cold.” He wrapped his coat around her shoulders.

“Yes.” She knew in that moment that she hadn’t taken the wrong bus; the wrong bus wouldn’t have led her to him. And she didn’t mind the cold. The air around them was thick, and the word seemed to hang there, in the mist. She felt frozen in place, despite the desire burning inside of her to bridge the gap between them.

One by one, sensations made themselves known to her, and she savored each one: the scratch of his coat against her cheek, the heat from his hand on her back, the smell of what might have been cologne and cigarettes she could smell at his neck, the slight breeze rustling the wisps of hair at the top of her head. He was the one to break through the silence at last. When he opened his mouth to speak, his breath was visible in a puff of white.

“I--I know you so little,” he began. “But I am completely certain.”

“You don’t even know my name,” she whispered.

Patrick didn’t want to move away from her, but he couldn’t stand not to show her. He needed her to know she had given him a kind of faith.

She felt him tug the coat more tightly around her as he stepped back and knelt down.

He heard her sharp intake of breath, and looked up at her to remind himself what was at stake. The leg of his trousers rolled up, he stretched forward.

“Shelagh.”

At the sound of her own name directed at her for the first time in nearly a decade, Shelagh’s face flushed. Her whole body felt awash in heat, every pore burning with confusion and happiness and need.

“Patrick?” The word barely escaped her throat.

“I’ve known your name my whole life.” He stood, not bothering to brush the gravel from his trousers. “I just didn’t know it was yours.”

His face was full of tenderness as she took his hands in hers. “I thought I didn’t believe in this anymore,” Shelagh whispered.

“Nor did I. But it’s not about the marks on our skin, is it.”

“No. It’s about what’s beneath.”

“Shelagh,” his thumbs traced circles on the backs of her hands as he spoke. “My life has been a source of confusion to me for as long as I can remember. But you make me feel like I can finally see my future.” His brow wrinkled. “Not in details, exactly, but in general impressions. It’s warm, and full of hope, and--and I think if my soul holds fast onto yours I will make it there. I’m sorry, is that terribly forward?”

She shook her head. Perhaps it was true what they always said--a part of you did just know. Or a part of you took a leap toward happiness, and held on. “Patrick, I hardly know you. But I want to. In fact, it’s the first time in ages I know what I want. Would you,” she giggled. “Would you take me on a date?”

Patrick nodded. If Tim hadn’t been sitting in the car several feet away, he was not entirely sure he wouldn’t have taken her in his arms then and there and become altogether carried away. Instead, he brought her wrist to his lips and kissed the place he already marked her.

“There,” he breathed. “We’ve made a start.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be the last chapter, unless I ever get around to writing an epilogue. Thank you so much to everyone who has been patient in following along, especially to those of you who've left comments along the way, and MOST especially to Nunonabun, who has been the most wonderful beta throughout. I would as always love to hear your thoughts. But mostly, thank you!


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